


Rethinking Camelot

by Maidenjedi



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:22:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maidenjedi/pseuds/Maidenjedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man with the cigarettes, and his best friend's wife. And this is the season for gathering flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rethinking Camelot

**Author's Note:**

> Written for littlegreen42, for 2009 xf_santa. It thrilled me to no end to get to delve back into CSM and Teena Mulder. Alludes to Musings of a CSM. General series spoilers.

The world was tuned in, carefully soaking in the details as they came. President Kennedy shot.  
Dallas. Motorcade. School book depository.

President Kennedy dead.

Vice President Johnson sworn in.

Teena was just like everyone else; she took it all in, she cried, she shook with the unbearable  
weight of losing such a brilliant young leader at the height of his rising popularity.

But her home was unlike any home in the country, perhaps. The phone ringing, her husband  
whispering, disappearing out the back door with a short nod and grimace. Fifteen minutes  
before the news actually came that anything was amiss that November day.

\--

She was never sure what to think; there were rumors from the beginning, that the Dallas police  
had caught the wrong man, that the Soviets had more to do with it, that Johnson had more to do  
with it.

Not that one ever, ever speculated on such things. But Teena didn't think that Lee Oswald  
looked like the type, and she said as much.

Her husband didn't comment. He looked at the television, and Teena would swear, later, that  
he smiled. Oh, such a small, secret smile.

\--

Charles came to dinner on Christmas Eve.

They had not seen him in over a month. Such is life, he shrugged at Bill, who nodded all too  
knowingly. Business often kept one or the other away, though never for this long, never before.

The longest was thirteen days, actually. Bill and Charles both were gone for thirteen days, in  
October, 1962. Bill had missed Fox's first birthday, too.

Teena did not dwell on the absences, at least not Bill's. It was Charles' absence that weighed  
heavily.

This time, it had been long enough for Teena to imagine she was forgetting his voice. His calm,  
smoky voice. The one that often sent chills up her spine, the good thrill that resulted in  
pooled warmth. Just thinking about it, when the doorbell rang announcing his arrival, she was  
worried she might be unusually flushed, and was careful to keep her shoulders straight as she  
walked.

There he was, leaning on the porch pillar, casual as always. Cigarette between his fingers, smoke  
curling in the slight winter breeze. He wore a grey suit, and a slouched, old-fashioned fedora.

"Mrs. Mulder," he said, and the tone hit Teena's nerve center. He had missed her, as well.

"Mr. Spender," she replied. She opened the door wider. "Won't you come in?"

He let his hand brush her backside as he walked past her, and she shivered.

"Bill!" he shouted, hand out to his colleague who walked in to the foyer, who appeared blissfully  
unaware of the tension in the room. "Long time."

"Yes, Charles. I trust your trip was...successful?"

"Yes, I think it was. We managed to complete the objectives."

"So I heard."

The men exchanged looks that left Teena with a new, dark suspicion.

\--

She scrutinized Charles' face, his demeanor. He appeared casual; there was a hardness, though, in  
his eyes and the set of his jaw. He was also holding his cigarette with his left hand, unusual for  
him. She wondered if his trip had been more eventful than he was letting on.

She wasn't stupid. She knew her husband, and Charles, worked for a government agency, though they  
were never specific about it. "The company," they called it, and they never brought work home with  
them, even if work often followed to take them back out again. She knew they were involved in things  
that people only whispered about, if they even thought about them.

She often wondered how long it would be before they were in over their heads.

\--

"Is little Fox going to join us this evening?"

Teena shook herself from her reverie. "No, I'm afraid our rambunctious two-year-old needed an early  
bedtime worse than you needed his company. He's with the nanny."

"A shame. Last time I saw him, he was looking more and more like your mailman. I was anxious to check  
his progress - more like Bill, or less. What do you say, Bill?"

"He looks like his mother. Stubborn as she is, too." Bill squeezed Teena's shoulder. She was less than  
amused, but unlike those first minutes with Charles in the doorway, she was composed and no one would  
have noticed her displeasure at being teased.

"Bill, shall we go in? Our other guests will be curious."

\--

The dinner party was, as usual, a rousing success. Teena, or rather the cook, was given high marks for  
the food, from the delicious turkey down to the last slice of pie.

Eight couples surrounded the table, including the Mulders, and Charles was the only single man present.

Rachel Cummings had teased him about bringing a wife next time, to which Charles only winked at Teena  
and proceeded to try and shock Rachel with stories about wild girlfriends.

Oscar, Rachel's husband, had once told Bill that he thought Charles was queer.

But no one ever wondered why Teena only wore red, or for that matter any color other than black or grey,  
when Charles was around.

\--

"Isn't it just ghastly, what happened to President Kennedy?"

It was the first dinner party since the assassination, so it was inevitable that someone would bring it  
up. Penny Rawling was that person.

"I feel so sorry for Jackie. How must she be dealing with this?" Penny continued, as no one was too keen  
on weighing the evening down talking about this.

A heavy silence was broken by Teena, consummate hostess. "Would anyone like coffee, or brandy?"

"I mean, those children! So small! Never to really know their father!" Persistent Penny.

"It is awful. I couldn't watch the funeral; it was too morbid." This from Frances Yarbrough.

And from there, a wild chatter erupted around the table, everyone talking at once. How young he was, how  
great a president! Never mind that none of them had voted for him - he was a Catholic, after all - and  
never mind that they all thought Jackie Kennedy had married beneath her.

Charles was the one person who said nothing, who only sat back in his chair with his cigarette in his  
mouth, who shook his head almost imperceptibly when Penny declared that she thought Kennedy a better  
president than Abe Lincoln himself.

Penny, of course, caught it. Perceptive Penny.

"Do you disagree, Charles?" The room was silent again.

"Yes, Penny. I disagree. Kennedy was no great man. He was just a man. Wrong place, wrong time. Unfortunate,  
but...I believe Johnson is a better man for these times."

"You mean Russia."

He did not reply, and Penny went back to her wine.

Teena, also, had said nothing during all of this. She began clearing away dishes, and tried to avoid Charles'  
gaze.

\--

The guests had left, except for Charles, and he sat in green recliner across from Teena and Bill, who were  
perched on the matching couch.

Bill yawned.

"I have an early day tomorrow."

"Oh, Bill. Don't you want to stay here, catch up with Charles?"

"No, dear, I need the sleep. You two catch up, I'll see you later. Charles, glad to have you back."

Bill left the room.

Teena fidgeted, her dress rustling so softly even mice might miss it. She had questions now, so many questions.

Fifteen minutes passed in silence as they waited to be sure Bill wasn't going to change his mind and come back into  
the room. Charles put out his cigarette, and walked over to sit on the couch with Teena.

She immediately got up.

"Not here."

"Have it your way."

She took the chair he had vacated.

"Did you miss me?" he asked, no lover's hope in his voice. A frank, bald question.

"I thought I did. Where were you?"

"You know I can't tell you."

"I think I know."

"Teena, come sit with me. Nothing has to happen. I just need to be near you."

"I think I know what you were doing."

"I missed you, you know. All the time."

"All the time you were in Dallas?"

Charles sighed, tented his fingers and leaned forward. "The walls may have ears, you know."

"I don't particularly care."

"Let's go outside."

"It's freezing!"

"You can wear my coat."

So they went out to the porch, sitting on the decorative wicker chairs that served no real purpose on normal  
occasions. Teena was swallowed by Charles' long dress coat.

He took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, chose one, and put away the pack. He played with the  
cigarette but didn't light it.

"How did you know?"

Teena bit back a laugh. "You all think we don't know."

"Who's we?"

"The wives. The husbands think the wives don't know."

"You aren't my wife."

It felt like a punch.

"No. I'm not."

Funny how his face looked like had been doing the punching.

"So what is it you think I was doing? In Dallas, that is."

She shrugged, sighed, looked out at the empty street. "Something to do with Kennedy."

It was hard to say aloud. She was accusing him, and Bill, and all the others, of conspiring to kill the  
President of the United States. It was ludicrous!

"Teena, if I told you...."

"I know. The old company line. If I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

"Worse, really. But that's the general idea."

He reached over and took her hand. Stroked her fingers. "There are worse things than this, Teena. It's  
because of what I do that you can even sleep safely at night. You do believe that, believe in me?"

He was so quiet she could hardly hear him. On some level, she knew, and she agreed. It would be that  
knowledge that eventually drove them apart. Right then, though, it hardly mattered, because she suspected  
she loved him, and he knew he loved her.

Teena had married Bill because it was convenient, because he came from the right family, because he had some  
money. She married him knowing she wasn't attracted to him, but it didn't matter. Until she met Charles.

It was so damned cliche!

The way he touched her hand, just these small touches, distracted her enough to almost lull the thought of  
Charles shooting the president out of her mind.

Not quite.

She took her hand away.

"I don't know if I want to be caught up in this."

"You married into it. It's too late."

"And you? How did you get into it?"

Charles resumed playing with his cigarette. "The question, Teena, is more about how I got this far."

\--

The sun shone bright the day Charles married Cassandra. A day in June, far removed from the cold,  
bitter December winds.

He wore a grey morning suit. She wore white, brilliant white that made Teena's eyes ache. The woman  
was so blond, virginal, and saccharine-sweet. Teena would never understand how this happened; there  
was obviously nothing between them except Cassandra's devotion.

Teena could almost understand.

She did have to admit that this was painful, but of course nothing showed in her face or her demeanor.  
She had also picked out a tasteful, not too expensive gift, carefully wrapped it herself.

Bill couldn't be there - the company had called him down to Florida.

Charles danced every dance with his new wife, and every one of their friends commented on how happy he  
seemed, how balanced. Where had Cassandra come from, exactly? No one was totally sure. She wasn't  
part of their set, but she was already fitting in beautifully.

Teena was glad they'd thought to have an open bar at the reception.

\--

Cassandra was pregnant and on bed rest, which was probably why Charles had time to visit.

Bill was away, again, this time to some place Teena could not pronounce.

She hadn't had sex since Charles married Cassandra, so it was easy to say "yes."

Afterwards, he offered her a cigarette and she refused.

"I did, you know."

She was confused.

"Did what?"

"Shoot him. It was me."

She held her breath. She didn't want to interrupt him, needed to see what he might admit. She felt  
cold, but it was still better here than it had been anywhere, for months now.

"There is nothing good or noble about what I do, Teena. I am a horrible man, and I do horrible things.  
I'm sleeping with you, while your husband's away and my wife is pregnant. That's the very least of  
them, and the only one I feel I can justify."

He kissed her. She let him.

"I need you, you know. You keep me sane."

"I don't know if I want to be what keeps anyone sane, Charles."

"If you only knew, though, what I've seen, what I've been privy to. Shooting him, taking on that burden,  
that was simple compared to the decisions that are coming."

Teena sat up, took his hand. "What decisions, Charles? Tell me."

He looked up at her. In this moment, if she closed her eyes, they could be husband and wife. They could  
share these terrible things, and this wonderful afternoon, and it could be marriage.

It was never going to be.

"Have you ever heard of a town in New Mexico called Roswell?"

\--

The day Samantha was born, Charles sent flowers.

And it was the only time he ever made such a public statement, at least until Bill was dead and buried  
many years later.

But any fool who knew her, and frankly there weren't many, would see the lilies and know immediately  
that they were her favorite. And that same fool would know Bill well enough to know he never, not  
once in his life, remembered.

That fool might also realize that Bill never bought flowers for Teena anyway. She obviously had an  
admirer.

Nearly spoiling the flowers was Cassandra's gift of baby blankets and a knitted cap for baby Samantha.

\--

"Do you remember, that night on the porch?"

"I remember."

"Do you remember, the last time we slept together?"

"I remember, but I wouldn't call it sleeping."

"Will you let me save her?"

"You mean take her."

"Teena, I know what I'm doing."

"You pulled the trigger. I think you know less than you imagine."

\--

 

All we've been through, for nothing but an idea! Something that you cannot taste, smell, or feel; without substance, life, reality, memory.


End file.
